


The Loneliest Man in the World

by kimposibl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Happy Ending, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:15:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimposibl/pseuds/kimposibl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"John Watson," he says, holding out his right hand even though it causes him to turn his body. She smiles at him, glad have finally received the name of the person she referred to in her head as 'the loneliest man in the world.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Loneliest Man in the World

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd and Un-Brit-picked. My poor attempt at something angsty and meaningful.

On Saturday afternoons, Mary takes walks at the park near her flat. The weather has been calm as of late, though still gloomy, and with fall nearing she knows she won't be able to enjoy the comfortable weather for long. She takes her time, thinking about nothing, except when she people-watches. There are regulars who are there at the same time as herself: a young couple, an elderly woman with her Pomeranian, and an artist sketching on the grass. Since moving to London a month ago for her new job she's been coming here almost every Saturday, familiarizing herself with the attractions, the people, and the hubbub of London life. She doesn't have any friends around except for some acquaintances from uni, so she tries to leave her flat on the off chance that she might meet someone, strike up a conversation with a stranger who could be something more. 

Her blue eyes follow a toddler running jovially from his parents, who chase after him with laughter and half-hearted scolding. They pass a bench upon which a lone figure sits, a cane at his side, a cup of coffee in his hands, and her eyes stop following them. 

He's a nondescript man, nothing out of the ordinary, except from this distance she can read the tension in his body and the look of grief etched across his face as he gazes at something beyond the ground. His ashy blond hair, flecked with grey, is cropped neatly, and his jacket and jeans are tidy, but his face looks weary, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Maybe he's lost his job? Spouse walked out on him? Before she realizes it, she's standing next to him by the empty side of the bench.

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asks quietly. It takes him a moment to respond, but when he does, startled blue eyes look up to meet hers. They're dark blue, like sapphires, with flecks of brown. He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly. He's probably about her age, mid 30's, and younger than how he looked like from a distance when he thought no one could see him.

"If you are, then yes," he says jokingly. She thanks him and sits by the aluminum cane propped up beside him. They fall silent for a few minutes.

"The weather's nice today," she comments, hoping to draw the man out of unhappy thoughts. He looks up and around, as if finally noticing his surroundings. 

"It's not raining," he observes.

"Hasn't for a few days now."

"Oh."

He obviously isn't in the mood for idle chatter, but she can't leave, not when he looks the way he does. "I hope I'm not disturbing you too much. Are you waiting for someone?" He glances at her and shakes his head. She feels encouraged. "How about a bit of coffee, then?"

"I'm sorry. I don't even know your name," he says, and a torn expression comes across his face. He turns away before she can study it properly. 

"My name's Mary. Mary Morstan."

"I'm sorry, Mary, but I don't want any. Perhaps some other time." But the suggestion falls flatly from his lips. He grabs his cane and uses it to help him stand. She watches him as he quickly hobbles away, his shoulders straight and his back stiff. She feels the pain of rejection for a moment, but she knows it can't be worse than what he's feeling.

\--

The following Saturday, Mary sees the same man sitting on the same bench, and she waits a bit longer before approaching him again. The weather is nicer today than it was last week, and the sunshine gives her hope. The artist is still on the grass, sketching something in the distance. The elderly woman and her Pomeranian have company in the form of a young girl and her Maltese. The young couple are by the railing, staring out into the Thames. 

"Is anyone sitting here?" she asks when she approaches him, and he twitches, startled by her presence. He looks up at her, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand.

"Oh, its you again. Erm...." He falters.

"Mary Morstan," she repeats patiently. 

"Right, right," he says, looking away. "Please, have a seat." She sits and studies him out of the corner of her eye. His right hand presses against his left on his thigh, as if trying to massage it. She quickly looks away when he turns to her. "Do you come here often, Mary?"

"Just for the past month," she says with a shrug. "It's nice here, and I don't get out much during the weekdays. Do you?"

"Just recently," he replies, staring at the ground again. She steals a better glance at his hands. No ring. Is he single? If he had someone, she'd be here, right? Last time, he wasn't waiting for anyone. What about this time? "I can hear you thinking," he says, amused.

"Erm, sorry?" she says, her face heating up. "Thinking about what?" she tries the defensive route, not knowing what she's giving away.

"Ah, nevermind," he says with a soft sigh. She bites her lip. 

"You know, when someone offers you her name, generally - "

"John Watson," he says, holding out his right hand even though it causes him to turn his body. She smiles at him, glad have finally received the name of the person she referred to in her head as 'the loneliest man in the world.'

"Pleasure to meet you, John," she says, shaking his warm, dry hand.

They chat for an hour. Turns out, he's a doctor invalided home from Afghanistan. She should have known he is in a field which cares for others, with the gentle look about him despite the loneliness he exudes. She doesn't pry into his personal life and mostly talks about herself, her newness to London, and her job as a primary school teacher, just to keep the conversation flowing and avoid awkward silences. He listens, nods and asks appropriate questions. They people watch for a little bit, poking fun at some obvious tourists taking pictures and wearing fanny packs (do those still exist?). Eventually, the grey clouds swoop in, and the sun retreats. 

"I should get going," John says after a moment of silence, standing with the aid of his cane. Mary quickly follows suit. "Thank you for the conversation."

"Of course," she says. "Same time next week?" she says hopefully. A look passes over his face but she blinks and its gone, replaced with a polite smile.

"Sure."

\--

The next Saturday, and the one after that has Mary and John talking later and later into the afternoon. Eventually, John agrees to lunch with her, then to dinner, then they trade numbers. After a month, Mary sees the slow transformation in John. His smiles aren't so forced, his eyes aren't so sad, and his gait isn't so stiff. He opens up more about his sister, his time abroad, and his part time work at a clinic. She doesn't ask about what's being unsaid, about why he sometimes flinches when she says or does certain things - things so unrelated she can't understand the meaning behind them. She wonders if he's a widower, or just got out of a long term relationship with a terrible break up. He obviously doesn't talk about it, although in her past experience men with that kind of past tend to bring it up. He either has no such past, or the pain is too deep.

One night, after two months of talking and one month of dating, she can't stand the heavy silence.

"John," she says kindly as they walk to her flat, "why do you look so sad all the time?" He stiffens beside her.

"I'm sorry?" 

"That first day at the park, I noticed you right away. You look like you've lost something... someone."

He sighs, but doesn't say anything right away. They're about five minutes away from her flat. She hopes he'll stay, if only to talk things out with her. 

"It's too soon to say," he replies at last, and for now, that's enough.

Four months after their first meeting, he mentions someone.

"I had a very good friend once," he says, staring into his cuppa. They're in a cafe by the park where they just had their Saturday morning walk. 

"Just a friend?" she asks.

"My best friend," he elaborates. She touches his hand, the one with the slight tremor (he tried hiding it from her for a bit, but she forced him to stop being ashamed of it). It stops. She nods, silently urging him to continue. He takes a few deep breaths and removes one hand from his cup to touch hers. Her fingertips trace his knuckles.

"He.... That is, we met shortly after I returned home from Afghanistan, through a mutual friend whom I ran into at the park two years ago."

She licks her lips. "You said you 'had'. Is this person no longer your friend anymore?"

"He died five months ago." The explanation weighs heavily between them. Mary tries to find his gaze, but its focused on the tea. " We shared a flat for a while. He was an insufferable git, a brilliant know-it-all," he looks up at her with a sad smile. "He could tell your whole life story just by looking at you. It infuriated everyone, but I thought it was fantastic." A deep feeling of empathy tugs at Mary's heart as John continues to describe this man, whose absence has haunted John for months. His eyes are bright with something she hadn't yet seen since meeting him, and she feels both jealous and slighted. Jealous because this person obviously holds a special place in John's heart; slighted because she'll never get the opportunity to meet him. And as if a dam has opened, John speaks of his adventures with his best friend the entire day, and Mary listens, entirely engrossed in the stories of violence and danger.

Later that evening, after she's alone in her apartment, she realizes that she never caught a name.

\---

Five months after their first meeting at the park, John stays over. He's finally letting her in, allowing someone to get close to him again, and Mary sees sunrises in his eyes. They laugh more, joke more, and he tells her more stories about his long lost friend, the only person that ever mattered, and Mary is thankful that she gets to see this John, the John she always knew was there but lost at sea.

They've just come out of the movie theater late Friday evening and are making the trek back to her flat. She suggested they move in a week ago, and John seemed hesitant despite the fact that a growing number of his items are taking over her space. She doesn't rush him, despite how eagerly she awaits his proposal. 

"I don't know," she says about the movie, "I expected it to be better. Too much hype, probably."

"Mm," he agrees. "Although the action scenes were quite nice, despite the impossible physics of it all." Mary hits him on the shoulder playfully. She's on his left side as he uses the cane for his right leg, so its a soft hit to his injured shoulder. 

"Please don't tell me you're one of them!" she jokes, "The ones who pi -"

"John!"

They abruptly stop walking. Actually, John made the sudden stop, and Mary took an extra step, distracted by her rant. She feels John stiffen where her arm is linked with his, and she grows concerned.

"Is something wrong?" she asks worriedly, facing him. In the dim street lighting, she can see that he's gone pale.

"Did you hear something just now?" he says urgently. "My name."

"Huh? Oh, right," she looks around them, then glances past John's shoulder. There's a tall man in a black coat staring right at them, not five feet away. His dark curls contrast starkly with his pale skin, highlighting his aristocratic features. The light from the shop they're next to warms him in an orange glow, casting hollows in his sharp cheekbones. A blue scarf is wrapped securely around his neck, and his coat collar is turned up against the chill. His eyes are intense, fixated on the back of John's head. Mary unlinks her arm from John's and steps forward.

"Hello," the man says to her, as if noticing her for the first time. He steps closer, and Mary instinctively presses herself against John, almost protectively. The action doesn't go unnoticed by the stranger, who takes a step back. Mary blindly feels for John's hand, which his clenched tightly into a fist. Mary turns to him, worried.

"John, are you alright?" she searches his gaze from his side as he stares resolutely ahead. "Do you know this man?"

And slowly, very slowly, punctuated by the sounds of the cane (tak tak tak), John turns around. Time seems to stop as the air grows thick around them. Mary can feel it as if she's suddenly emerged in molasses. John's back is straight, his shoulders are square, and his jaw clenches tight as he looks upon the newcomer, whom Mary realizes is not as new as she originally thought. She glances at the other man, catches something vulnerable in his eyes as he says again, "John," in a small, humble voice, but there's a loud clatter as the cane hits the cement and the look is gone as he tumbles to the ground, his nose and mouth doused in red. Mary gasps, torn between shock and horror, and looks at John. She sees anger, betrayal, and hurt in his tight expression. The man she met in the park all those months ago suddenly comes back, transposing himself in the John she thought was happy. 

"No, you don't get to say my name," John grits out in a pained voice as he glares at the man on the ground, who stays hunched over. "Dead men don't speak." He quickly walks away, his cane forgotten. Mary, stunned, just stares as the man gets up gingerly from the cement. She instinctively reaches for a napkin in her purse and holds it out to him. He takes it with a grateful nod and holds it up to his nose. She slowly picks up John's cane, feeling the weight in her hands, and looks up to find that John is a few paces away leaning against the wall as if its the only thing keeping him up. She glances hesitantly at the bleeding man, who isn't looking at her, and runs after him. 

"John, who is that?" she asks. John is panting, breathless almost, and she holds out his cane for him. He doesn't speak except to thank her, and he takes the cane in his right hand for support as he steps away from the wall. She wraps around his left side and casts a glance over her shoulder. The man is still there, standing with a bloody nose and mouth, looking all the world like he'd lost something very important. 

They walk the rest of the way despite John's struggle to keep walking and Mary's insistence on a cab. She feels the tension ebbing from his shoulders after ten minutes and melts into him, hoping it'll help him relax. She rubs his arm and keeps silent, knowing that he'll talk to her when he wants to. They arrive at her flat and quietly step inside.

She starts a kettle as John peels off his jacket and collapses onto her sofa, his face in his hands. His shoulders are hunched forward, and she can see the bruise on his knuckles along with spots of blood. She takes a towel, damps it with warm water, and comes back to him with a cuppa. She sets the cuppa down on the coffee table and kneels in front of him, taking his colored left hand in hers as she cleans it. Their eyes meet.

"Dead men don't bleed," she murmurs quietly. John stares as she gently cleans him. 

"Don't they?" he asks absently, blank eyes focused on the stained towel.

"You're a medical man," she replies, handing him the cuppa. "Surely the man you just punched still has a beating heart." He scoffs bitterly.

"Physiologically, yes."

"Mm," she agrees, folding the towel and tossing it aside. She gets up to grab her tea and sits down next to John. 

"Mary," he says after a short while. She leans forward.

"Yes, John."

"Thank you for understanding. You're very sweet." She just smiles. "I suppose you've been patient long enough."

"I certainly have many questions," she says. "Though I've put a few things together."

"Have you?" he asks dryly.

"I know I've never seen you that emotional before, except when you talk about him." She grips her tea tightly. "I know its impossible to come back from the dead, but if he's as clever as you say he is, then I'm sure its possible for him."

"Mary," he says tiredly, "you're supposed to be on my side."

She shrugs, a feeling of macabre humor overcoming her feeling of insecurity. She never considered it a possibility that she'd meet this man, the one who truly meant very much to John, and therefore never felt jealous or bitter in any way. If anything, she felt truly grateful he affected John so much (and thankful that he thwarted his previous attempts at relationships, even though, now living, will most likely try to sabotage theirs). She was attracted to the lonely man she'd met on the bench. All her friends warned her of her 'condition' - of her need to fix men. It's what she does. She's always been attracted to lonely spirits, wanting to fix them and bring the life back into their lives. It's why she likes teaching children, nurturing their self esteem and molding their minds. Its why she loves John, a man who will, due the change in events, no longer need her. What he has of John's is borrowed time. It will eventually want to resume its proper flow.

"Did you look at him, John? When he called your name?"

He sits back and shakes his head, sipping his tea. Men can be completely oblivious despite how deeply they can love. She touches his face, stroking his cheek for a bit before pinching it lightly. He scowls half-heartedly and pulls away, but she follows him and leans closer. 

"He looked the way you did when I first saw you."

That night, as they lie in bed, Mary hugs him as she would a teddy bear and thinks about the past six months of knowing John. Its much too soon to tell what will happen, if John will immediately return to a life with his friend, but for now, knowing that the pieces will start to fall into place, she shifts her affections for John. After all, if you love something, let it go, and if it returns to you, it was meant to be.

She's not the only one to whom that saying would apply. She falls asleep, burrowing into John's side. 

\--

The next morning, they take their usual walk at the park. They didn't speak much that morning, but Mary finds that she enjoys John's deep, contemplative silences. Often people try to hide in useless drivel that serves no real purpose.

"John! Fancy meeting you again!" A rotund man with glasses comes towards them, a cup of coffee in hand. He's wearing a business suit despite it being a Saturday. 

"Hey, Mike," John says in greeting, momentarily releasing Mary's hand to shake his. "This is Mary."

"Hello, Mike. John's told me of you," she says politely. 

"Hello, Mary," he says, nearly out of breath. "Fancy seeing you here," he addresses John. "You look well, mate."

"Thanks, err you too," John replies with a smile. Stamford waves a dismissive hand. 

"Gained nearly half a stone since I last saw you. My wife's been bugging me to lose weight, so," he gestures to the park, "my after the staff meeting walk." He tilts his head curiously at John, a wide smile on his face. "Seen the papers at all?"

'Sighted! Sherlock Holmes alive?!'

They gather round the paper Stamford had stuffed under his arm. Mary sees the candid shot of the tall figure of the night before through a window, napkin to his nose. 

"Can you believe it?" Stamford says, "that sodding bugger. Of course he'd put us all through a spin with faking is death and all that. Have you seen him yet, John?"

"He's the one that gave him the bloody nose!" Mary says excitedly. "Sherlock Holmes? Is that his name?" She repeats it quietly to herself. John glares at her.

"Right awful git!" Stamford agrees. "I've seen you punch a bloke before on a bad day, Watson. I'm surprised he's still conscious." 

"Regrettably," John murmurs.

"Don't say that!" Mary says, pinching his arm lightly. He rubs the spot as if it hurts, but he's smiling. 

The article goes on to reference a previous story declaring Holmes' innocence in reference to the crimes committed by James Moriarty, now deceased, previously acquitted of charges placed against him for attempted theft of the Crown Jewels, a break in of Pentonville Prison, and robbery at the Bank of England. Mary grabs the paper from Stamford and reads the entire one page spread, deaf to the conversation occurring between the two men. News this big should have reached her out in the country, but she was too busy with school and the kids at the time to pay attention to the media. 

"You didn't tell me he was famous, John," she says after she is done reading. John shrugs. 

"He's quite famous too," Stamford adds, nodding his head towards John. "Haven't you read his blog?"

"Mike...." John protests weakly. "I left that all behind."

"No, what blog?" she says excitedly. At John's hesitant look, she begs. "John!"

"Alright!" John says, ignoring Mike and Mary's grins.

Mary and John are in John's flat, a small studio apartment. She's only been there a couple times in the past and instantly noticed how devoid it is of everything personal except for a human skull sitting on a dresser (she asked about it, but John just said, 'an old friend,' by which she assumed he was referring to Shakespeare) and a laptop. She's sitting on his bed, reading his private blog with rapt attention, as John patters about the kitchen making tea. All the stories he's told her about Sherlock are written in great detail. She takes in the compliments he has of Sherlock, the phrases and words he uses with which to describe the 'consulting detective', and reads the suggestive comments left by Harry Watson on every entry. Total blog entries enumerate to 30, and there are hundreds of thousands of hits. 

She reads the 'Fall of the Reichenbach Hero', the latest entry. He must have written it after deactivating his blog from public access because there are no hits and no comments. John cataloged their last conversation together followed by the words 'I will always believe in Sherlock Holmes.'

Mary reads well into the evening and John only interrupts her for dinner. She helps him prepare the meat sauce for spaghetti while he cleans the salad components. She watches him out of the corner of her eye. 

"Won't you talk to him, John?" she says at last, breaking the silence. John licks his lips but otherwise looks unfazed.

"Why would I?" he replies sharply, shaking the water off the lettuce and transferring it into a large bowl. He starts peeling the cucumber.

"Why wouldn't you?" she counters.

"There are many reasons, Mary," he says. "He's a bastard and I'm upset and I'll need a while."

She stirs the bubbling sauce carefully and turns down the heat. "Fair enough." 

\---

Mary looks up at the building, hoping its the right place. She wrote down the address from where it was stated in one of John's blog entries. She's come directly after having left school, so John will still be in the surgery for another two hours. She feels awful about going behind behind his back like this, but she wants to help him. She wants to see what John's like when he's at his best.

She rings the doorbell once and waits. There is a quiet shuffle and an elderly woman appears. 

"Mrs Hudson?" she asks. The woman nods with a smile. "My name's Mary. Is Sherlock here?"

She hesitates for a moment. "You're not with the press, are you dear?" 

"Not at all, ma'am."

"Well, you're polite enough. Alright, come on in," Mrs. Hudson says, opening the door wider. The warmth instantly encases Mary, and she lowers the hood of her puffy jacket. The door latches securely behind her.

"Been all sorts of creeps around here," the landlady says in disapproval. "You'd think this would be the last place they look. But I can tell you're not one of them. Are you a friend of Sherlock's?"

"I'm a friend of John's," Mary says. "He's mentioned a lot about you. He regrets not keeping contact. His past haunts him very much." 

Mrs. Hudson's face falls. "You've been taking care of him all this time? He's alright?"

"Yes. And he's only going to get better."

"Right upstairs. I'll take you." Mrs. Hudson grabs her hand and pulls her up the stairs. Mary takes in the swirling wall paper, the squeaky steps, the smell of tea and mustiness. They reach the landing where a dim lighting peaks through the crack under the door to the sitting room. Mrs. Hudson knocks. "You've a visitor." There's no response, but she opens the door and ushers Mary inside.

The fireplace is going, and Sherlock is sitting on an armchair in front of it with a violin in his hands, the case left open by his feet. There are boxes along the walls and filing cabinets left open with stacks of papers on top, as if someone recently rummaged through them or stopped organizing altogether. The kitchen is spotless and barren. Mary tentatively looks around and sees a yellow smiley face on a wall with deep holes in some parts of it (bullet holes?) and underneath it a brown leather sofa piled with papers. The place looks like a storage room.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Mary says as the landlady walks out. The plucking of the strings stop. She looks over at Sherlock, his nose straight but discolored and his lip cut at the top. He turns to her and fixes her with an even stare.

"May I help you?" he asks in a deep, rumbling voice. Mary steps forward.

"I'm Mary. I'm hear to ask about John." He flinches at the name and continues plucking at the strings, staring off into the direction of the kitchen.

"What makes you think you can ask me?" His finger flicks up with too much force. The resounding tune is loud and almost violent.

"I was hoping we could trade information," she says, and he looks at her inquisitively. She knew she'd get his attention this way. She tries to smile, but his expression shows his disinterest.

"If John wants to tell me something, he'll say it himself."

"Alright," she says. "But before you send me away I want to say that he never stopped thinking about you." She inhales sharply. The distracted thrumming stops. "So, erm," she shifts, feeling embarrassed. "Thank you for your time." She practically spins towards the door before Sherlock's voice stops her.

"Not once?" he asks, a hopeful lilt in his voice. She turns back and smiles at him.

"Not once," she replies and quietly takes her leave.

\--

Mary can tell that John is preoccupied with trying to sort himself out, and she's supportive of his need for space. For the first time in 7 months, she's alone in the park on a Saturday morning. She calls a colleague for company, and they go out for sweets in a nearby coffee shop. Its getting warmer out what with spring on the way, and she considers getting a pet, a cat perhaps. Maybe two.

"So how are you and John?" Alison asks, sipping at her coffee. 

"Well," Mary replies. "He's almost there."

"Have you gone ring shopping?" Alison asks excitedly, nearly bouncing in her seat. Mary raises her brows.

"What?"

"Oh god, please don't tell me," her friend groans, running a hand through her straight brown hair in frustration. "The 'setting the love free' thing again?"

"I wouldn't say 'again'" Mary murmurs guiltily.

"Don't you love him? Are you crazy?"

"I do!" Mary says. "But its different now. I mean, he's like a best friend." Alison rolls her brown eyes. "What?!"

"Look, we need to change the type of men you go for."

\--

Mary and John haven't seen each other much during the next week, and it is within this time that she packs up the belongings that John has in her flat. She folds the innocuous jumpers and places them in a box along with his trousers and pants. She feels a sense of accomplishment instead of loss. All the time that she was with John, she always had a sense that he belonged to someone else. Though he loves her, his love isn't complete, and she needs to find someone who will love her wholeheartedly. This bird won't come flying back to her, but she trusts that they'll be excellent friends, and that comforts her.

John meets her at the park that Saturday, and the first thing she notices is that he's without his cane.

"Feeling better?" she asks, hugging him. He holds her tightly.

"Yes."

They don't link arms as they walk, but they still laugh and joke. John says that he's working with Sherlock to try and patch up their relationship. Mary talks about her friends at work and her upcoming plans for re-entering the dating scene. At this, John stops, and Mary takes his hand.

"You don't need me anymore, John," she says softly. He looks upset, guilty, and she kisses his cheek. "We'll still be friends."

"Mary, you're very lovely, and I'd be stupid to let you go."

"The man I met was only temporary. This is who you really are, John."

"Do you not love the man I am?" he asks quietly.

"I do. But he does not love me the way I need him to."

"You deserve to be happy."

"I will be."

They continue their Saturday morning walks. Mary keeps up with the regularly updated blog of Dr. John H Watson. She dates men who don't need fixing, and she eventually finds a pediatrician looking to settle down and start a family. She and John don't walk at the park on Saturdays anymore because she has Lawrence now, but they still have coffee every now and then. 

It's been almost a year and a half since she's moved to London, and its been the happiest time of her life. She invites John to her engagement party, and he turns up, still cane-free, with a tall imposing figure at his side. Sherlock doesn't look quite as thin, but he still has his cheekbones and his sharp eyes. He doesn't look pleased to be there, but when he sees Mary he congratulates her with a warm smile and a brief hug. He takes her fiance aside and possibly says something dreadful to him going by the way Lawrence's face whitens, and she sends John to check on them. 

"You have very protective friends," Lawrence whispers to her when he returns, nearly trembling. "I don't think some of the things he said is possible, and I did study anatomy, along with medicine."

"He has experience in things you don't really read about in textbooks," she says with a shrug. Her fiance looks, if possible, even more disturbed.

Four years and three months since she moved to London, she's cradling her first born child. He has his dad's nose and his mum's eyes, and she glances up at her husband, who looks as if all his world is in this tiny hospital room. 

Mary finally feels complete.

**Author's Note:**

> Because my OTP shipper heart demanded it.


End file.
